


Indulging Desires

by vands38



Series: Rumours [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, F/M, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Happy Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Misunderstandings, Novigrad (The Witcher), POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining, Polyamory, Witcher Contracts, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:48:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22201354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vands38/pseuds/vands38
Summary: Geralt has no idea how to go about reconciling his feelings for Jaskier but a delay in his journey North may give him time to find out.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Rumours [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1595146
Comments: 110
Kudos: 830





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You'd think a fic entitled "indulging desires" would be all about sex but shockingly there's actually some plot in here
> 
> Splitting this work over two chapters because it's a LONG boy

Geralt likes silence. He _thrives_ on silence. So nothing really explains the hollow in his chest when the talkative bard parts ways.

“-it’s the biggest festival of the season,” Jaskier is saying as he readies his horse, “it’s a privilege to be nominated as the opening act and there’s good coin-”

Geralt grunts. He understands the need for coin - it’s the only reason why he left Ciri with Vesemir at Kaer Morhen in the first place.

“-I’m sure you want me out of your fine, flowing, locks anyway-”

Jaskier is still talking but Geralt has slipped into a different plain; watching his lips part and his hands move and the gentle breeze lift his hair. It’s been three days since they shared that intimate moment amongst the ruins and it had not been repeated. They had agreed shortly afterwards that it was a pleasant experience but when Geralt suggested going further Jaskier mocked him for it; an act that cut far deeper than he was expecting. In the past few days he told himself it was a relief, in part, not to have to make that decision, but now here he is - _romanticizing_ \- and he wonders if perhaps he just told himself a very convincing lie.

“-wine and women and-” Jaskier sighs and it’s this break in monotony that finally catches Geralt’s attention. “Geralt, are you even listening to me?”

Geralt clears his throat and makes an act of tending to Roach as if he, too, had been distracted by work and not by such infantilising thoughts. “How long will you be in Oxenfurt?” he asks, in lieu of answering the actual question.

“The festival’s three days,” Jaskier says, as he mounts his horse. “But I have friends there and there’s jobs aplenty. As long as I don’t get myself into trouble, I imagine I’ll be staying at the Alchemy for a couple of weeks.”

A sense of relief sweeps through him at the casual issue of the address. He knows where Jaskier will be. He can write. He can visit. It always unsettles Geralt when he doesn’t see or hear from Jaskier for years at a time; he never knows if the bard is living amongst royalty or lying in a ditch somewhere. He dismisses the thought and smirks as he jests, “‘ _As long as you don’t get in trouble_ …?’ That’ll be shy of two days I imagine.”

“Oh ha ha,” Jaskier sneers, steering his horse towards the road. He stops the horse only after a few paces and turns back to Geralt.

Jaskier opens his mouth as if he wishes to speak but then closes it again before a single sound can escape. Instead, a curious blush colours his cheek as he turns his gaze away.

Not for the first time, Geralt entertains the idea that these odd moments of shyness Jaskier has displayed since their coupling are signs of infatuation rather than embarrassment. But surely given Jaskier’s forthright nature he would have voiced such desires in the days that followed had he wanted to repeat the intimacy.

This is why Geralt never sought to alter their relationship in the first place; he didn't want to risk unsettling the careful balancing act of camaraderie that they have struck over the years, especially given Jaskier's renowned short attention span for his affairs. Geralt reasoned it was better to be his companion for decades, than his lover for one night. It had been easy to brush off Jaskier's flirtations when that's all they had been but one passionate kiss after a near-miss in the hands of harpies was apparently all it took to break his resolve.

And now, his fears have been solidified: Jaskier no longer able to look him in the eye. Geralt sees Jaskier's uncharacteristic shyness and can only conclude that he regrets their coupling in some fashion. It wouldn't be the first time it had happened after all.

Despite all this, Geralt still finds himself looking for indications otherwise. If he knew Jaskier would welcome it, he would indulge his desire to walk over to the bard and kiss him goodbye. Tell him to be safe. Tell him to write. Tell him to come _back_. But Geralt learnt long ago not to wish for such childish things.

“Good luck in Oxenfurt,” Geralt says, meaning: _I am proud of you, I would be there if I could._

Jaskier smiles softly, as if maybe some of Geralt’s meaning got through. “Good luck with Ciri,” he replies, and in his eyes, for a moment, Geralt swears he can see the same sentiment reflected back: _I would go with you if I could_.

Their eyes lock for a moment; a moment in which everything seems possible, and then Jaskier gathers the reins in his hands and rides towards the horizon, never once looking back.

-

When the silhouette of man and horse has disappeared from sight, Roach snorts for attention beside him and Geralt breaks his focus from his empty heart and the empty horizon to pat her flank sympathetically. “I know, Roach, I know. Perhaps if I were not such a coward I would have kissed him.”

Roach neighs, shaking her reins, and he decides he’d rather not know it that was in admonishment or encouragement.

Geralt sighs and when Roach kicks her hooves, decides that he ought to heed to her impatience. “Alright, Roach, back on the Path.”

-

Geralt intends to ride due north to Novigrad but heavy weather delays him and by nightfall he has only reached Cunny of the Goose in Northern Velen. He normally finds the oddly-named village quite charming with its wooden walkways over the lake, thatched tavern, and good fisherfolk, but a heavy mist lies over the lake tonight that transforms the idyllic place into one of nightmares. As he approaches, he gets an inkling that the unease he feels goes beyond the dire weather. The village is empty, and too quiet. There is something bad at work here.

He sighs deeply and pats Roach sympathetically. “Think we may have stumbled into some trouble, girl.”

He dismounts and leads her towards the stables through the persistent drizzle. He closes the gate behind him - not untacking or tying her reins in case he has to leave in a hurry - and cautiously approaches the inn, sword in hand.

He preys it’s just a foglet. Or ghouls. Or drowners. Something easily dispatched so that come morn, he can be on his way to Ciri. But a single conversation with the barkeep puts that idea to bed. He doesn’t even know what this beast is yet but the villagers quote a fee that would more than make up for the abandoned griffin contract he originally left Kaer Morhen for, and he wagers that if he stays in one place for a couple of days, it would also allow Yennefer to find him - a temptation that gets more tempting with every passing day.

The villagers tell stories of a vampire but Geralt’s never been one to believe rumours and having found no recent sign of the beast, he tends to Roach then returns to the bar in search of more information. One crying mother, two angry soldiers, and one cryptic child later, and he finds himself ordering ale, a meal, and a piece of paper.

> _Jaskier -_
> 
> _Got held up by a contract. Will be in Cunny of the Goose (actual name) for some days. If I survive, will be outside Glory Gate (actual name) south of Novigrad at noon three days from now. I expect you are busy with wine and women but if not would appreciate your company in the city before heading North - no doubt you can swindle merchants better than I._

He makes sure to sign and date it and then passes the letter to the errand boy before he can think better of it. Immediately, of course, he regrets every word. There was no reason to even write to him. Jaskier is at the height of his career and Geralt is dragging him away from his worthy celebrations. It is also undeniably pathetic to write to him not even a day after departure. He should have let it be. He should have…

He grits his teeth and stares down into his bitter ale. What was done was done. If Jaskier thinks poorly of him then so be it. A witcher is well-versed in losing friends after all.

-

By the light of morn, Geralt examines the evidence around the village. He dives to the bottom of the lake. He interrogates the herbalist. He follows the track marks outside the village to the sea of the south and another to a hut on a hill. All he knows is that the beast strikes at night, takes the vulnerable and drags them out of sight, but all he found at the hut was blood and a curious scent - no body, no motive, no similarities between the victims. The rumoured vampire is careful. Very careful indeed.

-

That evening, he reads every book of monsters he has, trying to find a single beast who would act this way. Abduct silently, back away from prying eyes, then… what? There are no bodies. Does he hurt them? Eat them? Bury the bodies? Five people disappeared around this inn during the two weeks and the most anyone has seen is “a shadow and a scream”. As the candle burns down, he suspects more and more that he is looking for a man, not a beast.

-

Geralt spends the night on the rooftop in the shadows, waiting for the alleged vampire to make an appearance. The weather has improved; only a light mist settles over the village now, and any intruder should be easy to spot, but the night passes silently, the nightly visitor nowhere to be seen.

Dawn is breaking over the horizon when the water on the edge of the lake begins to stir. Geralt reaches for his sword, ready to strike the monster, when the water keeps rising and bending to form a very familiar circle instead.

“Yen,” he whispers, letting go of the sword as the portal solidifies and the sorceress steps through.

Her enchanting purple eyes lock directly onto his as he moves out of the shadows. Her ethereal beauty strikes him numb every time he sees her, there’s something magical about it that he can’t quite explain. Infatuation, maybe. Maybe something else besides.

“Geralt,” she greets, but he is already sliding down the rooftop towards her. “Did the tavern evict you for poor behaviour? Or is the rooftop truly your preferred accommodation for the night?”

Geralt smirks as he strides towards her. How he missed her sharp wit. “Contract.”

“Rats?”

“Vampire.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, I don’t believe it either,” he says. Geralt considers this to be small talk enough and cuts to the chase, “Jaskier said you needed to talk about Ciri.”

Yennefer sighs sadly which does not bode well for this conversation.

“She okay?” Geralt asks in a hurry, stepping closer, ready to portal out of here if the girl was hurt in any way.

“For now,” Yennefer says, with a hand on his arm, which is probably meant to dissuade or comfort him but only makes anxiety crawl deeper beneath his skin. "We should sit," she says, tilting her head towards the decked shoreline.

Geralt grunts but does as he's told, coming to sit by the lakeside with her. If she weren't withholding information about Ciri, it would almost be romantic.

"Nilfgaard know she’s at Kaer Morhen."

"Fuck."

"Fringilla and a handful of soldiers are heading north. Not fighting, just moving, keeping off the main roads, disguised as merchants."

"How can you be sure they're going to Kaer Morhen?"

Yennefer twists her mouth in thought. He's seen her do this before whenever she's trying to explain sorcery that he doesn't understand. "They know you were looking for her, and I assume, by now, they know that you have her. They know from which Witcher school you hail and that you have a habit of staying at Kaer Morhen over winter. Seeing as you already associate the fortress with a sense of safety it's therefore logical to assume you would take Ciri there as a matter of instinct. It's... logical. And, needless to say, their behaviour is suspicious," her mouth twists again from which Geralt can assume that there is magic alongside logic that forms this suspicion.

He doesn't know when he started trusting a sorceress but he finds that he doesn't question her conclusion at all. "How fast are they moving?"

"Fast. But they're behind us. We probably have four days on them at your current speed. Enough time to evacuate."

Geralt shakes his head. "Kaer Morhen is built on a mountain pass. There's only one road out. It’s too dangerous. You can portal her away or we'll join Vesemir and dispatch the Nilfgaardians when they arrive -"

"Geralt," she interrupts in a condescending tone, "I know your usual method of handling problems is to cut them down with your sword but trust me it's not going to work this time. If those soldiers go missing, Nilfgaard _will_ send reinforcements and it will only confirm their suspicions that Ciri is being kept there. Or, if I portal her, Fringilla will sense magic and know we were there. She could even find a way to track us through it. I will not risk it. We must let the Nilfgaardians arrive at Kaer Morhen and see it as empty.”

“They have a powerful sorceress with them, Yen, how are we meant to make it look like Ciri was never there?”

Yennefer smirks in that knowing way that Geralt adores because it’s the expression she uses that means she _knows_ how smart she is and is going to use it to get her own way. Usually he only sees it in bed or in battlefield, not long enough to appreciate it, but here it is now, bathed in the soft light of the early morn, and his heart aches as much as it rejoices. “Because,” she says slyly, “you will have a sorceress with you too.”

She matches his eyes as if to ask his permission and Geralt nods. He had assumed she would be joining them. More than that, he would like her to.

“Alright,” she says, accepting the charge. “So we arrive a few days before Nilfgaard. I dispose of any evidence that we were there. Carefully. We don’t want to make it seem too veiled in magic. When we’re far enough away from Kaer Morhen I can summon a storm if needbe to cover our tracks - Fringilla will be able to sense it if she gets close but it might be a risk worth taking if the weather is too clear. I suggest we go West, out to the Skellige Isles. Wait for Nilfgaard to retreat. Then return to Kaer Morhen and continue her training in the Spring.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “You can summon storms now?”

“I didn’t say it was easy. But, yes,” she says with a hint of pride. “However, I do not know the terrain around Kaer Morhen like you do, we would need your guidance. And, likely, also your sword.”

Geralt grunts. He knows all too well the danger of the mountains. “There are two paths we could take. One - north, past the lake, crawling with drowners but would keep us the furthest from Nilfgaard. The second… the west mountain pass. Steeper climb. Closer to Nilfgaard. But faster. The other routes I would not take.”

“You would not take the river south?”

Geralt shakes his head. “It is no river. It is a gorge. Steep mountains either side. There is nowhere to hide. If Nilfgaard found us there, we would be trapped.”

“I could portal us.”

“No portals, you just said.”

Yennefer thins her lips because she’s too proud to admit her mistake. “Fine, then we take the lake path. Use a boat and dispose of it the other side so they lose our tracks if they are clever enough to find them.”

Geralt nods. It was a decent plan.

“Alright,” she says defiantly. She stands and offers her arm down to him. “Let’s go. I’ll take us someplace north of here.”

Geralt stumbles to his feet, guilt pooling in his chest as a voice screams ‘no’ inside him. “I...cannot.”

Yennefer frowns. “Why not? The sooner we get to Kaer Morhen the more time we’ll have to prepare.”

“I…” Geralt hesitates. Yennefer’s right - Ciri will be safer the sooner they get to her. But Yen also said that they have four days on them even at his current pace. They should still have time even if he travels through Novigrad.

“The contract,” she infers from his silence. “You are so predictable sometimes.”

“I cannot leave these villagers without an answer,” he states firmly. He also cannot leave Jaskier waiting outside Novigrad for a man who will never show. “I have some business to take care of in the city. I will be at the Kingfisher in Hierarch Square two, maybe three, days from now. We can travel north from there.”

Yennefer sighs. “Very well. It will be safer portalling from a city in any case. I will see you in Novigrad.”

Geralt reaches for her hand before he is consciously aware of it. An instinct. He hasn’t seen her since they delivered Ciri to Vesemir. He missed her. He doesn’t want to let her go. Not so soon.

Yennefer has no such sentiments apparently as she wrenches her hand from his grip. “I thought we agreed, Geralt. I will not have the djinn bind me to you.”

“I know that,” he says softly, “I understand that.” He lets his hands fall by his side. “We may be bound but that doesn’t mean the djinn controls our desires. If we want something we should take it.”

Her jaw clenches. “The feelings we feel aren’t real, Geralt. There is no use indulging them.”

“I wasn’t talking about our _feelings_ ,” he growls, taking hold of her waist in his hands. Her sharp intake of breath sends his heart pumping. He remembers their conversation at Kaer Morhen following their last coupling; her belief that sometimes it was better to indulge in the djinn's base desires to abate its more dangerous ones. Their eyes lock and he sees the fire within her too wanting to be set free. “I was talking about other wants. Other _needs_.”

He watches the fire in her eyes burn and burn as they stand on this precipice. He never knows with Yennefer which side of the equation she will fall. She’s volatile and unpredictable and he’s wise enough to know that’s part of the appeal.

Just when he’s not expecting it her lips crash against his. He moans in surprise as her mouth assaults his. Her scent fills his nostrils. Her hair tickles his throat. She is all around him and inside him at once and he remembers now how addictive this is; how he never wants to stop; how the two of them feel like one as soon as she touches him.

He gasps for air and pants against her open mouth. “I should tell you,” he says, his voice utterly wrecked by her attentions, “I have not been…” he swallows, trying to find the words. “Loyal.”

She laughs - a beautiful, joyous sound, only partly-mocking. “Sweetheart,” she says condescending with a hand on his cheek. “We have _never_ been loyal. Now take me to a bed and fuck me.”

-

They barely bother with clothes, too eager to be reunited as they tumble into the creaky old bed in the tavern. He enters her and nearly whimpers at the overwhelming sensation of completion. Burdened with emotion, he moves slowly and purposefully, savouring every touch between their moving flesh. He is allowed a few moments perhaps before his sentiment becomes too apparent and Yennefer takes control, pushing him onto his back, stripping off another layer, and riding him with fast desperation. He reaches his hand between her folds and she moans at the additional sensation. His other hand finds its way to her breasts and he wonders if he will ever tire of this, if he will ever cease to marvel at the force of nature moving above him.

Afterwards, she collapses against his chest. His arms wrap around her, wishing it was always this easy to keep her in place. She allows him a kiss, then another, lazy and peaceful.

“Stay,” he murmurs.

“You are indulging,” she chides, not unkindly.

“Hmm…” he assents, trailing his hand down her naked spine. “So indulge me.” He kisses her again, gently, lovingly, as he runs his fingers through her long hair. “Stay.”

-

Yennefer stays for an hour, no longer, before she out of his arms and dressing in her standard black garb.

Geralt knew she would leave but it’s still hard to see. At least, he supposes, he’s less prone to worry about Yennefer than he is Jaskier.

“I’ll see you in Novigrad,” she says at the door.

The same instinct strikes him as it did during Jaskier’s departure. With the lives they lead, it’s always likely that the last time he sees them will be the _definitive_ last time. He assures himself that the urge to kiss them goodbye must stem from this logic - a want for his love to be taken, a need to see it reciprocated, a mutual gesture that solidifies emotional meaning. Or he is just being sentimental. A trait he knows Yennefer does not value.

He grasps his hands as to not to grasp hers and nods his goodbye as a portal forms of dust and lint in the entranceway. “Take care,” he says, _come back to me_.

She turns round and holds his gaze steady for a moment. He wonders how much she sees. “Until then,” she says, and the portal closes behind her.

-

That night, the beast visits. Geralt watches the black humanoid figure weave in and out of the village and understands now why the villagers called it a vampire. It certainly has dramatic flair - dressed in black, face covered by a mask, skulking in the shadows. Geralt sneaks closer on the rooftop as the visitor inches closer towards the kitchens of the tavern. Then, the visitor halts his movements, crouched in the bushes. At first Geralt doesn’t know what he’s waiting for until he closes his eyes and focuses on his witcher senses. A noise, closer than that of rooms and bar below. Footsteps. There is someone approaching the kitchen door on the other side.

Geralt tenses, hand on sword, ready to jump down between this person and the nightly visitor. He doesn’t have to wait long. As soon as the person - the barmaid, he realises - has stepped outside, the visitor shifts in the bushes. He nearly jumps down to tackle him but at the last second he notices that the visitor hasn’t reached for a weapon at all but is instead waving what looks like a small red handkerchief. Geralt freezes in surprise and watches in bafflement as the barmaid repeats the gesture. Whatever this is, it has been arranged.

But then, there is a glint of light and an eruption of the same curious scent he sensed in the abandoned hut and in the blink of an eye the visitor is attacking the barmaid.

“ _Fuck._ ”

Geralt jumps down to separate them just as the barmaid lets out a scream. He pushes the visitor away with aard but before he can even unsheath his sword, the visitor is sprinting into the distance, seemingly phasing in and out of existence in a wholly unnatural way.

“Are you alright?” he asks as he helps the barmaid to standing, but as soon as she nods her head and he smells no blood, he turns and runs after the nightly visitor.

Geralt tracks him, eventually, east, to an abandoned hut, and traps him with yrden long enough to get a sword to his throat.

The visitor pants, out of breath, and clearly out of ideas when he raises his hands in surrender. “Witcher, please, I meant no harm.”

“Five have been taken from that village and yet you mean no harm?” Geralt growls. He leans forward and rips off the mask to reveal a young man. “Wearing masks, capes, and skulking in the shadows? You are no higher vampire. You are a child playing dress up.”

The man whimpers. “Please, sir, I can explain.”

Geralt relaxes his grip on the man’s cape, seeing him so docile. “Then explain to me how you phase in and out of existence. That is not a power humans possess.”

“It’s but a trick,” he explains, “I learnt to play the shadows.”

Geralt tightens his grip once more and shakes some fear back into the man. “I am no fool. You moved faster than any human ought to move. What are you?”

The man squeaks. “Aye, I’ll tell you! There’s a potion,” he finally admits. “I devised it myself. I built up a tolerance. But I swear I wasn’t going to hurt her.”

Geralt growls. “If you haven’t been hurting these people then what are you doing to them?”

“Just...removing them, I swear, that’s it.”

“Taking them for slavery?”

“No! I would never!”

“Then where to?”

“Just… away. Put me down and I’ll explain! I swear!”

Reluctantly, Geralt unfurls his fingers from the man’s cape and lets him free. He pins him down with a stare as the man kneels on the floor and pulls in a couple of lungfuls of air.

“The barkeep,” the man says, “he is a bad man.”

Geralt grunts and rolls his eyes. How come he always finds himself in the midst of petty human affairs? Despite himself, he bites out, “Bad how?”

“Hits people, sir. Rapes them. Hurts them awfully. The boy, at first - the shoeshine boy - beaten raw. Then, the old lady that delivers bread. Then a lass from the next village who he’d taken a fancy to. Then the poor stablehand who cleaned the place. His own daughter eventually pleaded for help. And tonight I was meant to assist the gentle barmaid to freedom.”

Geralt rubs his hand over his face in a tiresome manner. Just once he would like to have faith in humanity. Just _once_.

“They needed to escape so I just… took them away.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, pondering the man’s story. “What about the blood in the hut on the hill?”

“Aye,” the man says with a cringe. “His amore. The lass cut herself. Wanted to make it look convincing that one. In case anyone came alooking.”

Geralt nods. He doesn’t detect a lie, and desperation would certainly cause such an act. “Fine. So you play the part of a beast, pretend to kill the victims so this barkeep doesn’t go looking for them, and then presumably transport these people far away.”

“That’s the long and short of it, aye.”

“Why not just kill the barkeep?”

The young man raises an eyebrow and indicates to his spindly little form. “Do I look like the killing type, Witcher?”

“Hmm. But you must understand that men like this… they won’t stop. They will keep committing these atrocities, no matter how many people you remove.”

“Aye,” he admits with a sad, small shrug. “He will. But better to save some than none at all, am I right?”

Geralt tilts his head, studying the kid. He sees a lot more strength in him now then he did a short few minutes ago. “Why?” he asks. “Why do you do this? Who pays you?”

“I’m not sure if I can tell you that, sir.”

Geralt pins him with the glare again. The one that always fills people with fear. (Except for Jaskier - for some reason, Jaskier only seems amused by it.)

The glare works. The man raises his hands defensively again and says, “Aye, okay, I’ll tell you! I work for The Red Guild,” he admits. “We get letters from people, pleas for help, reports of abuse… ya know, and then we go about our work.”

“Out of the kindness of your heart?”

“Eh,” he says awkwardly, “There is some coin in it. We have a few wealthy donors, see, that make sure that we are fed and watered. But other than that...”

Geralt nods, mulls over his story, and comes to a conclusion. “Here’s what we’re going to do, kid. Tell me you won’t bother these village folk again and I’ll make sure the barkeep doesn’t lay another hand on an unwilling soul. In addition, I want the location of the Red Guild and the recipe for that potion for my own personal use. Do this and we go our separate ways.”

The man swallows, and almost looks like he’s going to protest before he catches the glint of Geralt’s sword and seems to change his mind. “So you’re not gonna kill me?”

“Not today,” he says sheathing his sword and holding a hand out to lever him to standing. “You’re doing good work,” he says with a pat on the kid’s arm. “But next time you rescue a damsel leave the damn cape behind.”

-

The barmaid is being fussed over by countless patrons by the time Geralt arrives back at the inn. The barkeep leans back watching the scene with folded arms and a scrupulous expression. Geralt narrows his eyes. As he enters he is barrelled with questions and exclamations - “What happened? The poor girl won’t even speak of what attacked her” - but Geralt heads straight to the barkeep and pins him against the wood with such a force that it starts to splinter beneath him.

“Found the monster,” he growls, and pulls the coin pouch from the man’s pocket for which he is owed.

The villagers around him erupt in gasps and gossip and he hears the sound of a knife or two being drawn but Geralt’s attention remains solely on the barkeep.

He leans into his space and whispers, “I know what you have done. You wrought the despair in this village with your own two hands. If I find out you have touched a single other person in the rest of your useless existence, you will no longer have two hands, do you understand?”

The barkeep whines and nods his head the best he can in Geralt’s tight grip.

“Do not doubt this,” he whispers in a grave tone. “I _will_ come back, and I _will_ know what you have done.”

He drops the barkeep and he crumbles into a sobbing, scared, pile of limbs on the floor.

He turns round to address the rest of the stunned villagers. “Your monster has been defeated,” he says, nodding to the distressed barmaid, who nods back in understanding. “This place will be free of its evil. I shall take my leave in the morn.” He follows the gaze of one or two men to the fallen barkeep and realises what could happen if he doesn’t dismantle the power structure that the man has built. “This man is not deserving of your sympathy,” he warns the patrons, “It was his repugnant actions that drove the beast to this village. It would serve you well to remind him of that.”

With that, he takes his leave, and leaves the barkeep at the mercy of the villagers.

-

At dawn, Geralt wakes to an unusual sense of excitement in his stomach. Novigrad. Jaskier. _Or…_ he thinks, as the excitement curdles into fear _…no Jaskier_. As he bathes and dresses he attempts to tell himself that he would understand if Jaskier did not come. It was short notice, it was a long way to come, he has no _reason_ to come, but… if he is there, waiting for Geralt, despite all of this, then it makes Geralt hopeful that perhaps he has not lost the opportunity of further relations with Jaskier entirely. It’s this ludicrous idea that sends nervous butterflies fluttering where there is normally indifference.

Roach snorts loudly and Geralt realises that he had stopped mid-tack to daydream about a bard. “Sorry, Roach,” he says with an apologetic pat to her crest. “I don’t know when I started caring about people but it’s rather inconvenient, wouldn’t you say?”

She neighs, which he takes as a ‘yes’.

As he rides of out Cunny, he sees the barkeep, bruised and muddy, at the side of the road, grumbling about being evicted from the village.

Geralt smirks, and rides hard towards Novigrad. Maybe humanity isn’t so bad after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright, here's eight thousand words of porn. this chapter is probably pushing the limits of what's acceptably "Mature" and not "Explicit" but apparently Geralt only deals with emotion through sex so what am I to do really

Geralt arrives at the gates to Novigrad well before noon and ties Roach to a nearby post. The weather has eased to a cool sunshine as he sits beside Roach and reads lore to the sounds of the flowing river and chatter of citizens.

Under any other circumstances, this would be a pleasant respite, but Geralt cannot read more than two sentences of his book before his eyes are drawn to the horizon. He chose to wait as close to the Gate as possible, with a wide, uninterrupted view of the main road, but it means that at every clatter of hooves he startles and his nervous energy builds, until he locates the source of the noise and realises it’s not Jaskier at all. This happens countless times - his nerves a tangled mess of expectation and hope - until eventually Geralt gives up and throws his book aside.

Roach snorts beside him.

“I know,” Geralt grumbles. “I’m pathetic. And don’t ask me how long I will wait for. You won’t like the answer.”

Roach neighs and stamps her feet in protest. Geralt smirks in amusement and rests his head back against the wooden post, closing his eyes to fall into a meditative state. He trusts Jaskier to find him, if he comes.

-

“‘ _If I survive_ ,’ Geralt?” Jaskier’s mocking voice cuts across the road and jars Geralt from his meditation. “‘ _If I survive’_ ”?!” Geralt tracks the source of his protests and sees Jaskier dismount and tie his horse - distractedly, angrily - to a nearby fence. “Do you know how utterly non-reassuring that is to hear?” he exclaims as he strides over towards Geralt.

His raised voice has already attracted the attention of several bystanders but Geralt finds it hard to care about their prying eyes or even Jaskier’s prissy anger as he rakes his eyes indulgently over Jaskier and his absurd turquoise doublet; a sight he had missed fiercely even over the course of three nights. Geralt also finds it rather charming that despite Jaskier now having reached his fourth decade, his wardrobe and his countenance have scarcely changed since they first met twenty years ago. His constant youth is almost enough to trick him into believing he is as timeless as Yennefer; a trick he wishes more and more often were true.

“There I was, enjoying a _lovely_ evening, partying late into the night, men, women, little puppies, all at my feet, hanging onto my every word when a poor little errand boy runs right into the fray with a message that says - ‘ _If I survive_ ’ - and I thought, well, Geralt of Rivia, _if you survive_ , then I might just come and find you _just to kill you myself_!” By now he’s in front of Geralt, hands on hips, puffing and fuming, and pouting indignantly.

Geralt smirks and finally admits to himself that maybe he more than likes this talkative bard. Geralt experiences the brief, absurd urge to hug him of all things but makes do with a gruff, “Nice to see you too, Jaskier.”

“I nearly left right there and then to drag you north myself but, you know…” Jaskier trails off with a faux-casual shrug, “the mayor requested that I play at her soiree and the festival doesn’t pay until the closing ceremony and there was much, _much_ , free wine, so…”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, amused at his rambling. “Understandable.”

Jaskier waves his head. “Sure, you get it. You did… survive though?” he asks with a wary look at Geralt, as if he’s checking for injuries.

Geralt tries not to fluster under his attentive gaze. He’s not used to people caring if he lives or dies, especially not with Jaskier’s level of concern. “I did,” he reassures him. “It was rather anticlimactic, all be told, nothing to write home about.”

“Although you _did_ write me,” Jaskier says coyly.

Geralt takes a moment to be grateful he is not prone to blushing. He must have regretted every word in that letter thrice over before he had even arrived in Novigrad. “It was… rather spontaneous,” he admits. “I am sorry I dragged you away from the festivities.”

Jaskier shrugs. “What can I say? I’d rather swindle merchants with you than swindle the flautist into bed again. Speaking of which…” he says, sidling closer with a wary glance at their onlookers. His scent changes; nerves apparent, and Geralt watches his eyes dart around them, concerned as to what has him so rattled. “I must admit,” he murmurs at last, “I do not know if that was the underlying reason why you invited me here.”

Geralt’s heart beings to palpitate, his mouth turns dry. He suddenly feels laughably transparent. He thought he had been successful in suppressing his desires for the bard but somehow he sees right through them.

“Your letter writing leaves something to be desired,” Jaskier babbles with a telling blush on his cheeks, “and being what it was I was not sure if the innuendo was strictly coincidental or…” he trails off, his eyes darting everywhere but Geralt, “If perhaps you did want to continue what we had started now we were somewhere more… _comfortable_.”

Geralt takes a sharp intake of breath and inhales Jaskier's intoxicating scent as a consequence. He wasn't expecting Jaskier to be so blunt - he was not even expecting Jaskier to be entertaining such things - especially given his demonstrated disinterest on the path. But then, Jaskier finally meets his eyes and what he sees there stuns any words he might have had into silence. Jaskier _does_ what this. For whatever reason may be behind his change of heart, there is no denying his desires now. Geralt is stunned silent by this unpredicted outcome; he doesn't know how to start reconciling his desires with an apparent reality.

Geralt’s surprise must be clear enough to see because Jaskier steps out of his space a little, looking a little sheepish, and says, “To be clear - don’t mind either way. Happy to just swindle merchants if you want to swindle-”

“Bed,” Geralt says, not at all smoothly. _Yes_ , he thinks, staring at Jaskier’s red cheeks and bitten lips, suddenly overtaken by a fierce desire, _Yes, I want to take you to bed. I want to give you everything that you want._

Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind Geralt’s clumsy words as a delightful smirk takes over his features. His eyelids flutter to the ground and his blush deepens and Geralt can _smell_ his desire - the scent so potent that he can at last identify it for what it is. Geralt wants to reach out to feel the heat of his soft cheeks with his own dirty, calloused hands but they have probably already given the citizens of Novigrad enough of a show.

“Bed,” Jaskier says giddily, his eyes locking with Geralt’s just long enough to send excited shivers down his spine. “Okay. Bed."

-

They make their way across the river and into the walled city as Jaskier rambles excitedly about the Oxenfurt festival. From the snippets Geralt catches, it seems it was a very lucrative three days with coin and job offers aplenty.

Before long the inevitable happens and Jaskier asks about Yennefer. They are untacking their horses at a nearby stable when Jaskier asks with only a tinge of restrained annoyance about her whereabouts.

“Yes,” Geralt answers. “She found me,” and he fills him in on his time in Cunny and the plan to move Ciri somewhere safe.

Afterwards, as they continue their walk into the city, Jaskier asks shyly, “Did she, uh, stay? Afterwards?”

Geralt twists his mouth. He knows what Jaskier’s asking. Another reason why he tends to stay out of such entanglements - he’s never really understood the concept of monogamy - not in his line of work. Geralt is ageless and always close to death; he does not concern himself with emotions like jealousy. “Yes,” he says after some time, locking eyes with Jaskier so he knows he’ll understand the meaning. “For a time.”

He studies Jaskier’s reaction and can’t find a trace of jealousy in there, much to his relief, it’s more like… confusion, or contemplation. He doesn’t understand it one bit, enough that he finds himself asking, “What is it?”

Jaskier shrugs with a cheeky smile, “Just that if I was in your bed, I can’t imagine I’d be in a hurry to leave.”

Geralt is once again stunned speechless by his bold flirtation, not sure how to respond, but when he looks back over to Jaskier he's biting down on a wolfish grin that makes Geralt think his words might be more than simple flattery.

-

As they approach Hierarch Square, Jaskier’s excitement is palpable, his arms swinging close enough that his fingers brush against Geralt’s in a tantalising dance. Geralt wants nothing more than to push him against the wall of Vivaldi’s Bank and crush his mouth against his…

The Bank. Damn.

Geralt turns to Jaskier apologetically. “I have to make a stop.”

Jaskier’s face turns pleading and Geralt feels the same urgency to be with him _right now_ now that it’s possible - fuck, now that it’s _possible_ \- but he swore he would go to the bank as soon as he arrived in the city and he’s not one to abandon oaths so readily.

“I won’t be long,” he promises, and before he can overthink it - or before Jaskier can argue back - he reaches out and squeezes Jaskier's hand. Jaskier makes a strangled noise at the unexpected touch, his face flushed, and his fingers flexing as if to capture him. Geralt reluctantly untangles his fingers but then seemingly forgets how to move - his fingers itching for more, his heart pounding, lips tingling with the thought of a kiss - but a loud wolf whistle from across the square brings him back to reality with a startling thud. “Two minutes,” he promises Jaskier. “Go get us a room.”

At this, Jaskier nods enthusiastically, and Geralt watches as he comically darts between beggars and merchants in his hurry to cross the square towards The Kingfisher.

Geralt huffs in amusement and turns to approach the bank. “I need to deposit this,” he tells Vivaldi, dropping the bag of coin into his open palm, “And order a banker’s draft of 800 crowns with an attached note to be sent here,” he says, handing over the Red Guild’s address.

“Certainly, sir. And the note?”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, looking around. “May I borrow a quill?”

_Dear friends -_

_A man in Cunny informed me of the good work you do. Please find attached funds and know I will send more when I am able. I am also particularly well-suited to intimidating offenders into ceasing their actions. You will find me roaming the Northern Kingdoms - your man in Cunny knows my name. If you need any such favours while I am in the area, I will happily provide aid._

He returns the quill and note to the bewildered banker before going on his way.

-

Geralt finds Jaskier loitering by the stairs of the inn, swinging the room’s key in his fingers. The inn is quiet this time of day and luckily no one takes note when Geralt moves to join him.

“May I ask what were you doing that was so much more important than bedding me?” Jaskier drawls as he approaches.

Geralt grabs him by the scruff and pushes him up the staircase before they can attract any more attention than they already have. “Spending all my coin,” he grunts.

Jaskier laughs. “You’re telling me not only did you bail on the griffin contract but that you’ve _already_ spent the coin you earned in Cunny?”

Geralt grunts because, yes, that is more or less what happened.

“Lucky for you,” Jaskier says, dangling the key from his finger as he walks backwards down the hallway towards their room, “You’re sleeping with the richest bard in the Four Kingdoms…” he unlocks the door and then throws his arms wide at its offerings.

Geralt peeks past him at the standard sized bed and ratty furnishings. “Hmm.”

Jaskier lowers his arms, having also noticed the state of things. “Oh. I thought for the amount of coin this would be a little more luxurious…” he muses as he walks into the room and picks up a stray hair. “Perhaps not.”

“Welcome to Novigrad,” Geralt jests and takes the abandoned key to lock the door behind them. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks, watching the blushing bard bounce around the room inspecting furnishings, “Last time we spoke you weren’t so… enthused.”

“Huh?” Jaskier says, closing the wooden chest from which he must have been distracted.

Geralt drops his satchel and removes his swords while he waits for Jaskier’s attention to return. “What you said we came here to do,” he says, “We don’t have to do it.”

“But _Geralt_ ,” he sings, clearly in high-spirits, with the cheekiest grin Geralt’s ever seen, “we’re in a _nice_ room with a _four-poster_ bed with _silk-_ ” he stops short upon touching the sheets, “-on second thoughts maybe we ought not use the sheets. Aside from that, I think it meets your standards.”

Now it’s Geralt’s turn to be confused.

Jaskier laughs but not unkindly. “After our last encounter, you said you wouldn’t ravage me until we were-”

Geralt catches up rather quickly, recalling the conversation that had been taunting him for the best part of the week. This must have been the source of the misunderstanding: when Geralt said he would want him to be comfortable, Jaskier must have taken it to be literal. It wasn't a rejection, Geralt realises with clarity, it was a postponement. "I think I said," Geralt says, recalling the conversation, "that I rather wouldn't 'ravage' you at all."

“Oh,” Jaskier says, suddenly stopping short, the colour draining from his face. “Then, my friend, I fear we may be speaking at cross-purposes.”

Another misunderstanding. Geralt shakes his head viciously. This time he is determined not to let miscommunication get between them. “That’s not what I mean,” he says, “I mean-” he tries to find the words and then failing, breaks off in a groan, and strides across the room to cup Jaskier’s cheek and take his lips softly, but firmly, between his own.

“Oh,” Jaskier says in understanding when they finally break for air.

“Hmm,” Geralt chides as he gently slips the lute off the bard’s shoulder. “Come to bed.”

-

Despite Jaskier’s apparent fears, he doesn’t so much as tense while they’re in bed, not even when Geralt makes the breach. Perhaps Geralt is overemphasising his fears - perhaps Jaskier is an old hand at this and was just teasing Geralt that night when they discussed it - or perhaps Geralt’s clumsy attempts to be gentle and reassuring actually succeed.

He notices early on that sex with Jaskier is nothing like sex with Yennefer - the sorceress seems to despise anything approaching tenderness, especially after the realisation that the djinn bound them - but Jaskier seems to crave it. He whimpers every time Geralt lavishes affection on him and Geralt is so unused to the sensation that he can’t help but give in. Every kiss against his throat, every palm against his back, every wandering finger, or lingering press of lips seem to make Jaskier melt in his arms, and, in turn, he finds his own body relaxing along with him. 

What also makes the act distinct from the many others in Geralt’s past is the sheer _joy_ Jaskier seems to derive from it. Always smiling, always teasing, sometimes letting out a laugh when the mood takes him. Perhaps Geralt has just spent too long with bored professionals or with wily women trying to prise something from him other than a release, but sex with Jaskier is… freeing, in a way he hasn’t experienced in far too long.

They take their time, tension building almost to the point of madness, when he feels Jaskier move beneath him - his toes curling, his fingers digging into Geralt’s neck, and his back lifting from the mattress - and even this physical act of release seems more like art than it has any right to.

“Please-” he whimpers, and this is something else that Jaskier does which Geralt cannot help but find endearing - the way he _begs_ , the way he _pleads_ , the way he acts like every touch from Geralt is crucial to his existence. “Stop thinking,” he murmurs. “I need you to-” but he breaks off in another moan as Geralt does what he’s told and comes.

-

Afterwards, Geralt wants nothing more than to fall into his arms and sleep the afternoon away, but the last semblance of logic in his brain informs him that he risks crushing the lithe bard beneath him, and reluctantly, pulls out and rolls beside him instead.

They both lie like that for a moment, catching their breath, looking at the disturbing number of cobwebs above them.

“I, uh,” Jaskier starts, and Geralt turns his head towards him, mesmerised by the sight of his tongue peeking out to lick his lips. “Wonder when they last cleaned this room.”

Geralt rolls back towards him with a startled laugh - _fuck_ , he doesn’t remember the last time he _laughed_ \- and tucks his head onto Jaskier’s shoulder. “Don’t think about it.”

“No?”

“No.”

He feels more than hears Jaskier chuckle beneath him, and then feels the reassuring weight of the bard’s arm curving around his back, keeping him pressed to his side. Geralt closes his eyes and feels a rare smile grace his lips as he falls into a deep contented sleep.

-

Geralt wakes to the muted sound of music and cracks an eye open to see Jaskier occupying a nearby chair - still nude - with a lute in his arms. He seems focused on the task, frowning down at the instrument as he plucks a couple of strings and hums something indeterminable - something about a long journey, perhaps.

He’s seen Jaskier work on his music plenty of times throughout their acquaintance - mostly to Geralt’s annoyance due to Jaskier’s ignorance of witcher working habits - but no such feeling arises within him now. From the snippets he hears while dozing, this is not Jaskier’s usual brand of rude, rowdy, rousing choruses about heroics. Instead it seems almost… gentle. Like a mother’s lullaby. Or a lover’s lament.

“Hmm,” Geralt murmurs, as he turns to face him once again. “Sounds nice.”

Jaskier startles at being spoken to and nearly drops the damned instrument on the floor. “Sorry,” he says, rushing to his feet. “I didn’t know you were awake.”

“I’m not,” Geralt mumbles nonsensically, running a hand over his tired eyes. “Come back to bed,” he says, and then realises that to someone as sensitive as Jaskier that could sound like an admonishment of his music. “Or keep playing. I don’t mind.”

Jaskier snorts in amusement but Geralt hears the instrument being put aside and footsteps approaching anyway. “You _always_ mind,” he says, crawling up the bed.

“Not always.”

Jaskier throws his head back and laughs disparagingly. “No. _Always_.”

Geralt frowns and turns to study Jaskier beside him. Guilt stirs in the pit of his stomach. He has been needlessly cruel to him in the past - his harsh words at the dragon hunt, for one - and it has clearly hurt Jaskier more than is fair. Geralt reaches out and takes Jaskier’s face in his hand, turning it towards him until their eyes lock. “Not. Always,” he states with feeling, hoping that Jaskier will read the apology between the lines.

Jaskier smiles sadly like he still doesn’t quite believe it. Geralt frowns, not knowing how else to convey his sincerity, until he realises he now has a new tool at his disposal, and brings Jaskier forward into a kiss.

Jaskier sighs against his lips, returning the kiss cautiously but wantingly, as Geralt does all he can to redeem himself.

When he slips his hands into Jaskier’s hair and finally feels him relax against him, Geralt pulls back with a few peppered kisses, hoping he has been successful in his apology. “What time is it?” he grumbles against his lips.

“Early evening,” Jaskier says, rolling over slightly so Geralt can see the setting sun out the window. “I can call for some food, if you like.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, watching the enchanting light play over the pale and smooth skin so tantalisingly laid before him. “Maybe later.”

“Maybe…?” Jaskier starts before Geralt moves his lips over his collarbone, neck, nipples… and he breaks off with a sigh. “Later,” he agrees as Geralt moves his lips to Jaskier’s fluttering stomach and narrow hips. “Geralt? What are you-?” he murmurs before Geralt closes his mouth over his manhood and Jaskier finally understands.

 _Let me apologise_ , Geralt thinks. _One act at a time, I will make amends_.

-

They eat. They drink. And then Jaskier entices him to share a bath with a filthy kiss that promises a very satisfying conclusion. What he doesn’t expect, however, is for Jaskier to pull out a razor.

“I hope you know,” Jaskier says, as he runs the blade through the water, “How utterly atrocious it is that a man as dignified as yourself does not carry a single grooming tool.”

“And that a man as _un_ dignified as yourself does,” Geralt snipes back with a smirk. He gets a sprinkling of dirty bathwater in his face as a result.

In truth, Geralt’s not really surprised. The bard is eternally clean shaven and he must achieve this somehow. It suits him too, he finds himself pondering, he can’t quite imagine the bard with so much as a week’s worth of stubble.

Jaskier goes about his business, despite there not being barely a shadow of a hair on his chin. It’s strangely mesmerising to watch. Oddly domestic, but also not something that would go amiss at a bathhouse full of strangers. He’s certainly never lusted after those fellows as much as he does Jaskier now.

“When did you say Yennefer’s coming?” Jaskier asks as he soaps his throat for another run. His voice is still soft, casual, as if he has no more interest in the answer than the weather prediction for the morn.

“Hmm,” Geralt says, mulling it over. “Tomorrow, or the day after. I don’t know when." He had been rather vague in setting a time with Yennefer as he had not supposed he would be indisposed. Now he is bedding Jaskier, however, he rather wished he had the foresight to set a definite and more distant time.

“She knows to come here? To the Kingfisher?”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier seems thoughtful as he washes the razor, no doubt picturing the intimidating sorceress interrupting them mid-coitus. Then he looks up and asks, “Don’t you want to look your best for her?”

Geralt looks down to the razor floating between them and smirks. “Are you saying you prefer me clean-shaven?”

“I’m saying as pleasant as that earlier experience was, my groin is now glowing a rather marvellous red, and I wonder if your other lover might also prefer being bedded without it being made immediately obvious to third parties.”

Geralt smirks, taking note of Jaskier’s puffed lips and irritated skin. They had certainly been relentless in their affections that afternoon. Jaskier probably turned the rumour mill by his looks alone when he went to order food at the crowded bar this evening. “Very well,” Geralt says, taking the proffered razor.

He turns it over in his hands, once, twice, deliberating, before he looks back to Jaskier. “I admit I’m rather out of practice.”

Jaskier blinks disbelievingly at him. “Are you telling me that a man so renowned for being proficient with two very scary blades is somehow ill-equipped to shave his own visage?”

Geralt shrugs. It’s not entirely true, but he’s certainly not in the habit. “All the more reason why I appreciate other professionals of their trades.”

“You go to a barber,” Jaskier infers. “Every time?”

Geralt shrugs. “Occasionally. When I need to. Looking pretty isn’t part of my job like it is yours.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and wrestles the razor back out of Geralt’s grip. “Un-bloody-believable,” he mutters before scooching forward, sending the bathwater surging dangerously close to the side of the tub. “Come here then.”

Geralt hesitates at the thought of another man with a blade against his neck, a vulnerability he wouldn’t normally allow outside the hands of a professional, but he doesn’t hesitate nearly as long as he thought he would when he shuffles closer to let Jaskier take his jaw in his hands.

Jaskier hooks his leg over Geralt’s to get closer and the proximity causes the blade to come daringly close to their groins every time Jaskier comes to rinse it in the water. It’s a mundane act made thrilling. Every scrape across his throat could be a precursor to death. Every exhale against his cheek could be a kiss. Jaskier’s hands are steady and sure but his skittering breath gives away his pleasure in the act. Jaskier works in uncharacteristic silence and Geralt is enchanted; not taking his eyes from the man even after they are finished and the blade is safely placed to the side.

“I didn’t think you’d let me do that,” Jaskier murmurs, a hand loitering seductively on Geralt’s thigh.

“Hmm,” Geralt muses, because he didn’t expect himself to let him either. He _trusts_ the bard, he realises. This single realisation turns the world on its head; in his profession, trust isn't something easily gained. Their entanglement is already dangerously undefinable - this isn't sex, this isn't camaraderie - he's no longer even sure if he'll be able to dismiss the memories of this pleasant respite when Jaskier eventually gets bored and leaves. He fears the bard's tender kisses may linger long after they are parted. 

“Would you…?” Jaskier says coyly, his hand slipping from his thigh to the cleft of his buttock beneath, “Trust me in this too?”

Geralt inhales sharply, overwhelmed by the sensation and the words alike. Every time he thinks he understands Jaskier, he sends another curveball his way. Not many would dare to ask a witcher that, yet alone touch him so brazenly.

Geralt’s deep, unsteady, breathing must send the wrong signal to Jaskier, who slowly removes his hand from its intimate position. “No matter,” he says. “I was curious if you had ever… but I am happy if you have not. Just pushing my luck,” he admits with a sly smile.

The sight sends an excited shiver down his spine - in this short time already, Geralt has learned that good things follow that smile. He cannot tell Jaskier all of it - that he has, once, been pleasured that way. Under the cover of darkness at the Kaer Morhen with a fellow witcher who was long since dead. That on lonely nights afterwards he remembered that touch - more intimate than he thought it could be - curious fingers touching things that should be hidden. That in brothels, since, he has been tempted to ask, to try to rekindle that feeling, but has never dared ask. That over the years, that craving has been buried deep - deep enough that he had forgotten its potency until Jaskier’s fingers had so casually touched what has not been touched in decades.

Geralt wonders if finally he may have found someone trustworthy enough to indulge that age-old desire. He studies the bard’s face - his earnest desire and his willing spirit - and closes the scant inch between them to take his lips between his own. “I would say,” he murmurs against his lips, “that you are not pushing _enough_.”

Jaskier grins against his lips and takes Geralt’s face in his hands to kiss him passionately as they rise to standing. Pressed fully against his wet, naked body, desperate _want_ overtakes him, and their hands reach and grasp and pull and twist, and then Jaskier is trying to stumble out of the bath towards the bed.

Geralt follows just as eagerly, albeit more gracefully. When he lands on the bare mattress, Jaskier crawls atop of him with a wolfish smile, pressing kisses to scars like it will heal them. It is already so unbelievably intoxicating witnessing Jaskier have this rare moment of control that when his finger presses against his entrance Geralt lets out an unrestrained moan of pleasure.

Jaskier groans and grips his face again to kiss him firmly like Geralt’s reaction only fueled his own desire. Jaskier fumbles as he retrieves the slick they used earlier and coats his fingers liberally. Geralt experiences a rare, fleeting moment of anxiety, before Jaskier is kissing him again and any doubts he had melt away.

It stings. Geralt had forgotten. He grits his teeth, but Jaskier notices his discomfort, and immediately retreats. Geralt grunts. “You enjoy this… intrusion?” he asks Jaskier because earlier today he seemed to _very_ much enjoy it.

“Yes,” he says with a hint of annoyance, “And you will too, you just need to… relax,” he says, just as his eyes fall to Geralt’s wilted manhood and the answer makes itself apparent.

Geralt closes his eyes as Jaskier makes good on his word, and true enough, the next time Jaskier makes the breach it's to a lot less resistance.

Geralt sighs, finally feeling a little of the peace, of the _fullness_ , that he has been craving.

"Better?" Jaskier asks from his position.

Geralt nods and hopes that Jaskier sees the subtle movement because words are currently far beyond his capabilities, especially when Jaskier's finger starts moving inside him.

He falls into the slow, dizzying, comfort of it all until there is a sudden, surprising touch that has him lurching forward -

"Fuck!" he shouts as his release hits him unexpectedly.

Jaskier chokes as he tries to cope with the sudden influx and Geralt tries to reach out to comfort him but he's still reeling from the overwhelming sensation. "Fuck," he swears again, trying to recover.

He needn't have worried about Jaskier as moments later, he's chuckling, wiping away the seed on his chin. "I think it's fair to say you may have enjoyed that."

"Fuck," he says again, emphatically.

"It's intense, I know," Jaskier says, lying back beside him. "But we'll work on it, don't worry," he says with a confident wink that unwittingly piques Geralt’s interest once more.

"Fuck."

Jaskier laughs and Geralt just wants to bathe in the sound. "So you’ve regressed into a one-word beast. Good to know. At least it's the only word you'll be needing for a while."

"Fuck _off_."

"Oh good, another word," Jaskier teases, evidently very pleased with himself that he has rendered his witcher monosyllabic.

Geralt finally having caught his breath and finally done with Jaskier's teasing, decisively rolls on top of him and catches him in a deep kiss. He wants to say 'thank you' but it feels trite - at once both not enough and too much. 

When they break away, Jaskier runs his fingers through Geralt's hair and leans up for another kiss. Sweeter this time, as if he is answering in kind.

-

They try again that night and this time Geralt holds off until three fingers are deep inside him, and then he howls the tavern down.

-

The next morning, Jaskier is dead to the world, passed out face down on the bed, lightly snoring in a deep sleep.

Geralt was pleasantly surprised by what a good bed partner Jaskier has turned out to be. As tender as he is during the act, he doesn't linger for long afterwards, preferring his own space to sleep. Geralt appreciates this more than he will ever likely vocalise.

As he extracts himself from the bed he gives into the temptation and leaves a solitary kiss in Jaskier's tousled hair. He is rewarded by a sleepy snuffle and smile, which Geralt spends far too long regarding before he finally slips out of bed.

-

Geralt goes about his errands even though it is barely past sunrise. He bites into his apple and browses the markets as he waits for the armourer to repair his clothes and weapons. Without Jaskier's charm, he has to pay full price for the herbs he needs but he is too light-hearted to resent it. Even Roach seems to be in a disconcertingly good mood when he checks on her and Jaskier's grey mare. The stable hand has them both full of treats from the looks of it. He pats them and takes them for a short stroll but they seem perfectly contented to stay another night.

At the blacksmith, he loiters, having seen a well-crafted foil that would do well for Ciri's training. "How much for that blade?" he asks the man, pointing to the sword in question.

"Elven made," he says, "Some say it has magic."

Geralt resists rolling his eyes - every merchant claims as much about their weapons, but as he holds it in his hands and gives it an experimental swing, he agrees it is a rather well made sword.

"500 crowns," the blacksmith quotes.

Geralt raises an eyebrow, almost wishing that he hadn't given into his moment of spontaneous chivalry yesterday and parted with the majority of his coin. With disappointment, he puts the blade down. "I will...have to return for it," he says and turns away to the next stall.

"Wait!" the blacksmith shouts after him. "You're a Witcher are you not? If you are struggling for a coin, I have a way you can pay."

At this, Geralt _does_ roll his eyes - rolls his eyes and takes the job.

-

Geralt returns to the tavern some hours later, stained in sewer garbage and monster blood, but a blade and a handful of coin richer.

"I _cannot_ believe we're going to have to bathe you again," Jaskier greets when he walks in, and calls down for some water before Geralt can so much as intervene. "I told her," he says with a tutt as he puts aside his lute. "Marjorie said you'd just gotten bored and wandered off and I said, 'no, Marge, I bet you ten crowns he's just got distracted by monster' and look at this-" he says, picking at Geralt's bloodied rags. "I was right."

"I want you to fuck me," Geralt says, apropos of nothing. In reality, the thought had solidified into a blatant desire the moment the kikimore's jaws had nearly torn into his throat, but to Jaskier it probably seemed apropos of nothing.

A slow, sly, smile begins to spread over Jaskier's face, his scent of desire is growing stronger, but before he can say any of the hundred filthy things he was probably going to say, there is a loud thud at the door.

Geralt turns to see the maid - presumably, this "Marjorie" drop the bucket of bathwater and turn a deep shade of red. Geralt freezes, paralysed, at having been caught so blatantly declaring his intentions.

"Well done," Jaskier says as the barmaid disappears down the hallway. "Great way to start the rumour that the great Geralt of Rivia is a bottom."

Geralt grits his teeth. He had only just begun exploring this and now, _already_ , it was going to be a trite piece of gossip? He was not prone to embarrassment, but he was very, very, prone to _anger_.

Jaskier sees his fist clench and darts forward, wrapping his own hand around it. "How 'bout I go speak to her? Convince her she must have misheard?"

Geralt is still too jarred from the encounter to look at him or even respond but he does give a very terse nod of his head.

"You could at least wash your face while I'm gone" he hears Jaskier call back before he hears the tell-tell sign of footsteps on stairs.

-

Geralt washes and begrudgingly admits he feels better for doing so. A sense of clarity settles over him as the water drips off his face. He has dealt with much more damaging rumours than the one the maid would likely spread. Jaskier had done a good job in burying the moniker "Butcher of Blaviken" and now with the rumours of their affair, Geralt is more likely to receive a wink than a glare when he's on the road. Admittedly, he is also likely to receive more coin. His armour was in tatters when he first met Jaskier but as soon as that damn song was penned it brought more prosperity to him than he could have imagined. He probably owes Jaskier thanks for his riches and more besides. Still, perceptions can be shattered just as easily as they can be built and he fears that if this one particular facet of truth spreads then he will be seen as _weak_. A preconception that is dangerous as well as tiresome in his profession. Maybe they are right. Maybe he is weak. Because he certainly lacks the strength to disprove them to the measure it would undoubtedly take.

"I'm not ashamed," he tells Jaskier when he returns, needing to soothe any barbs his brash reaction may have caused.

"Didn't say you were," Jaskier replies, closing the door behind him. He opens his mouth, as if there's more he wants to say, but he closes it again before he vocalises.

Geralt grits his teeth and throws his towel aside. It seems he will have to be more explanatory this time. "I don't want them to have what is yours, lest of all before you take it."

"Oh," Jaskier says, Geralt's explanation seeming to have brought him up short. A faint blush on his cheeks tells Geralt that he understood though.

Jaskier steps closer, runs his hands over Geralt's clean naked chest, and then tilts his head up for a kiss. "I ought to tell you," he murmurs as his lips leave his mouth for his neck.

"Hmm?"

"In exchange for her silence, I may have agreed to play tonight."

Geralt scowls, offended by the idea that Jaskier would trade away even more of their precious time just to keep the peace.

"So we have…" Jaskier squints at the early afternoon sun out the window. "A few hours perhaps before I must play another, much less intriguing, instrument."

Geralt smirks at the innuendo, wondering when he started finding his gaudy sense of humour so endearing. "Well then," Geralt says, slipping his hands under Jaskier's waistcoat, "We best make the most of our time."

-

Despite their earlier promises, the interruption they suffered earlier must have been enough to snuff Geralt’s primary desire. Inside they wile away the hours with their hands and mouths and Geralt finds himself hoping that Yennefer will give him just one more evening alone with Jaskier. He misses her, and wants to get to Ciri, but he feels like if he doesn’t take this step now, he might never summon the courage again. After all, if the plan to evacuate Kaer Morhen is successful, there’s no telling when he will return from Skellige. It could be years before he sees Jaskier again and he suspects, what with the bard’s vast romantic record, that he will have lost interest by then. Geralt tries not to let that thought sour their time together but it lingers in the back of his mind like the taste of ale hours after it has been drunk.

-

That night, Geralt indulges the whim to watch Jaskier perform. He picks a shady, quiet, corner of the tavern - albeit one with a very good view of the stage - and eats and drinks and pretends not to watch his lover's every movement. Geralt intends to leave after one or two songs, lest the increasingly busy tavern take note of their brooding visitor, but Jaskier keeps the masses successfully captivated and Geralt receives no more than a passing glance. As the night carries on, he admits that the rowdy patrons aren't the only ones that Jaskier has captivated.

Jaskier has always been good at his job, Geralt reflects. From that first meeting where Jaskier was obviously more interested in food than money, to his courtly entertainment at Cintra, even his uncanny ability to compose rousing songs based on rudimentary encounters… He's good. Geralt recognises that the only reason villagers started throwing coin at him instead of stones is because Jaskier made it so. Jaskier's talent has indirectly bought him armour, and food, and a warm stable for Roach. He is thankful. The only reason Geralt hasn't outwardly appreciated his talents in the past is because Jaskier’s ability to do his job more often than not directly conflicts with his _own_ ability to do his. Jaskier doesn’t seem to care much if his music is about to get them killed, just how Geralt doesn’t care much for music because he’s about to do the killing. Their occupations are normally at odds, but now, out of harm’s way, Geralt is content to fall under his spell like the rest of the patrons. And when Jaskier’s sparkling eyes and dashing smile enchant the crowd, Geralt can reassure himself that for now, at least, this well-favoured man belongs to him.

-

After the performance, Geralt’s desires can no longer be kept at bay. He wants Jaskier and at this point he scarcely cares if all of Novigrad knows it. Despite his impatient libido, he resists striding over into the spotlight and taking Jaskier in his arms, and instead loiters by the stairs, waiting for Jaskier’s eyes to find him, before tucking tail and leaving for their room.

Jaskier must be equally as eager because Geralt doesn’t have to wait more than a handful of minutes before the bard appears in the doorway, having left his adoring fans behind.

They catch each other’s eyes across the room and seemingly having the same instinct at once, hurtle towards each other to crash their lips together. Geralt groans as he tastes blood. He has been gentle with Jaskier, so _gentle_ , but now their passion overrules their senses as Jaskier takes and takes and pushes him back towards the bed.

Geralt revels in Jaskier’s confidence and lets his fingers - still swollen from playing - strip him bare. “You watched,” Jaskier marvels, licking at his exposed throat.

Geralt groans at the sensation, very thankful Jaskier talked him into shaving yesterday. “I told you,” he murmurs. “Sometimes I don’t mind.”

Jaskier pushes him onto the bed and straddles his hips and Geralt nearly goes starry-eyed at this display of dominance. Perhaps he enjoys Yennefer and Jaskier’s dominance in bed precisely because so few people would dare to do so. Perhaps they are the only two people he can entrust to have this power. But whatever the logic, his reaction is the same: groin hard, heart soft.

“Please-” Jaskier asks and already Geralt knows he will give in to whatever he asks. “Can I-?” he says, his hand reaching under Geralt’s thigh.

As an answer, Geralt reaches for the oil and pushes it impatiently into Jaskier’s hands.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’ then,” Jaskier teases, kissing Geralt once more before slicking himself up. “I can-” he offers, looking doubtful between the size of the opening and his manhood. He is probably debating using his fingers but now Geralt has prepared himself for this, he wants nothing more than to do it.

Geralt shakes his head. “No, now. Please,” he adds as an afterthought.

Jaskier grins, probably savouring the seldom plea to leave Geralt’s mouth, before he seems to sober and cups Geralt’s cheek in his hand. “Thank you,” he says sincerely. Geralt doesn’t know if he’s still talking about the show, or the sex, or something else besides but he sounds so earnest that he daren’t break the spell by asking. Geralt leans up to kiss him instead and Jaskier returns it, so tender and soft, that Geralt feels his heart constrict with it.

 _Please don’t let me love this man_ , he begs whatever deity may be listening. _Please. I could not stand it._

Then Jaskier is pushing into him and all logic is banished from his mind.

-

They make love - slow, excruciating, delightful - until the early hours of the morn. The experience is even more life-shattering than Geralt had accounted for. He had thought, after a century on this earth that he had tried everything worth trying but it was reassuring to be proved wrong.

By the end of it, Geralt was digging his fingers into his flesh hard enough to bleed but Jaskier never wavered, just kept lavishing kisses on his lips and caresses on his skin. Every touch felt divine; a fizzling heat that sizzled all the way down to his core. Time and reality became as hazy as a dawn’s mist - he was no longer witcher, no longer man - all he was was the heat and all he craved was the release.

Afterwards, he clung to Jaskier, sweaty and sated, unwilling to let the blissful haze come to an end. If he were a man, he would be ashamed of his flagrant desperation, but he was no longer man - he was Jaskier, or Jaskier was him - it didn’t matter either way.

Geralt held tight, he fears he may have cried, but at some point, eventually, he must have fallen asleep.

-

Geralt is rudely awoken by the humming of his medallion. He jerks awake just as a portal of dust and cobwebs appears at the foot of the bed.

He doesn’t have time to so much as grab his sword or cover his groin before Yennefer appears before him.

She takes one look at the two of them on the bed - Jaskier face down, bottoms up, only just stirring and Geralt half-crouched and full frontal - and raises an eyebrow. “The bard, _really_?” she observes with disdain.

“Yen-” he says with a cautious look at the waking bard.

“I knew he desired you,” she says as the portal closes behind her and Geralt starts picking up his clothes from the floor. “But I didn’t think you were the type to-”

“ _Yennefer_ ,” he warns again as Jaskier is now fully awake, glaring daggers at her, and fishing for his breeches. Beyond this, Geralt is genuinely hurt by her reaction. Yennefer has no way of knowing but Jaskier had torn him apart and rearranged him in a matter of days and her treating it like a casual indulgence and not the transformative act it was, hurts him deeper than he knows how to emphasise.

Yennefer looks at him, sighs, and seems to drop it. “Fine. But we need to go. They’re approaching Novigrad.”

“And you hadn’t heard of _knocking_?!” Jaskier protests as he finally sources his breeches and covers himself.

“I was in a hurry,” she bites and then turns to Geralt, “Or don’t you remember?”

Her comment does well to shame him and he ducks his head as he pulls on his shirt. Ciri was in danger and he was passing time with a bard. He knew how it looked and he knew no amount of explanation would make her understand. It was important, to _him_ , but she won’t see it as such. “I remember,” he grunts. “But kindly be civil and give me time to say goodbye.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes as if the notion greatly pains her but does as he asks and heads for the door. “Very well. You have five minutes. Don’t get any ideas.”

The silence after her departure seems somehow greater than before. The peace that they knew has been shattered; reality is waiting at the door. It is no longer possible to ignore the fact that they will soon be parted for countless number of years. Geralt closes his eyes and briefly regrets entering into this arrangement at all, but the regret doesn’t linger… too smitten with pleasant memories.

“Well,” Jaskier says, as he pulls a shirt over his head, “Her manners don’t seem to have improved any with age.”

Geralt huffs, finally startled from his melancholic thoughts. He continues gathering his belongings. “She has other qualities,” he defends.

“Like _what_?!” Jaskier demands, trousers hanging from his hands. “Eating children for breakfast?”

Geralt shakes his head with a chuckle. “No,” he jests, “I believe she prefers those for lunch.”

Jaskier snorts at Geralt’s display of humour and throws a sock at him in amused vexation.

Geralt finishes dressing and reaches for his satchel and weapons. Jaskier only seems to have been half-successful in the finding of his clothes and stands before him with an open shirt, trousers, and a single sock. Geralt smiles at the absurd sight - the bard still flushed and in disarray - and wonders if he will ever see such beauty again.

“Don’t leave,” Jaskier begs.

Geralt closes his eyes and wishes he had not heard that desperate plea or that, at the very least, he had some defence against it. Instead, a crack forms deep inside him.

“I mean to say-” Jaskier starts, and Geralt opens his eyes to see Jaskier’s sad and shamed countenance. “I know you have to leave but I… wish you didn’t.”

Geralt nods tiredly and grasps at the strap of his satchel as if it will give him something to hold on to. He could just turn around and leave, pretend the bard did not shape his soul irrevocably, bury the desire deep just like all else he has been denied, but he hesitates, no longer certain he is the coward he once was. He vividly remembers standing in Velen a week ago with Roach at his side, watching Jaskier disappear into the horizon and wishing desperately that he had kissed him goodbye.

Geralt has learned, this last week, that indulging desires is not always in vain, and if this is the last time he gets to kiss Jaskier then he’s damn well going to make it memorable. He drops his satchel and strides over to Jaskier taking his face in his hands and his lips between his own and kissing him ardently. Jaskier mewls and grasps him like an anchor as Geralt attempts to pour every apology, desire, and declaration into the kiss that he daren’t say out loud; the only gift he can give him. 

Eventually, reluctantly, he pulls away and rests their foreheads together.

“Look after Roach for me,” Geralt implores, voice cracked with emotion, and Jaskier nods empathetically. There is no one else he would entrust with his faithful mare. Then he uses his fingers to tilt Jaskier’s face to meet his eyes. “And look after yourself. I don’t want to find you rotting away in some royal dungeon when I return.”

Jaskier reaches for Geralt’s face and smiles sadly as his thumb strokes his five o’clock shadow. “I’ll try not to cause too much of a ruckus without you,” he promises. “There’s no fun in it if you’re not there to rescue me anyhow.”

Geralt laughs, dismayed to find tears at the corner of his eyes. “Farewell, my friend,” and with that, a final kiss goodbye.


End file.
